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It was Valarr, the son of Baelor Breakspear and heir to the Iron Throne, who set his father’s pyre aflame. The torch kissed the oil-soaked wood, and for a breath the world seemed to hesitate - as though even fire might think twice before devouring the Prince of Dragonstone. Then the pitch caught, and flame ran swift and bright along the stacked timbers in a merciless line. The first crack of splitting wood sounded like a bone giving way.
Ashford Meadow stood in reverent silence. Morning lay pale and thin across the earth, a chill clinging stubbornly to the grass as though spring itself had not yet forgiven winter. Banners stirred faintly above, the three-headed dragon folding and unfolding in the restless wind. Lords and knights bowed their heads. The septon’s prayer dissolved into smoke as the roar grew louder.
Maekar Targaryen stood straight as a drawn blade. Black wool fell heavy from his shoulders. A slash of Targaryen red cut across the dark of his doublet like a wound that would not close. The bandages at his ribs pulled with every breath, but he did not shift. His hands hung at his sides, half-curled into white-knuckled fists, as though he restrained something violent there. His face was carved from something harder than flesh; there was a bruise beside his left eye, and the firelight gilded the silver in his hair until it seemed he burned from within.
At his side stood Aegon, red and black against the gray morning, small but straight, a hat covering his shaved head.
Egg had never seen a pyre so vast. It rose higher than a man on horseback. It seemed too great a thing to belong to one man - even a prince. Heat pressed against his cheeks; smoke stung his eyes until they watered, and he told himself it was only that.
The flames took hold quickly. They climbed and coiled and devoured, wrapping the bier in gold and crimson. Cloth blackened. Wood split. Somewhere within the blaze, something gave way with a long, low sound like a sigh drawn from a weary chest.
Egg swallowed. He dared a glance upward; his father did not move. Maekar’s gaze was fixed upon the fire, unblinking. Tension threaded through him, visible now that Egg knew to look for it. His jaw was set so tightly that a muscle worked faintly near his temple. His shoulders were drawn back not in pride, but in refusal. The tendons in his neck stood out, strained and rigid, as though he held the whole sky up by force of will.
Another crash from within the pyre - sparks spiraled upward in a furious crown, scattering against the pale heavens like dying stars.
Egg knew that his father was not only a father in this moment. He was a prince of the realm, he was a brother to the man who burned, and he was watched. But he could also see that Maekar stood utterly alone within his grief. Slowly, almost without willing it, Egg’s hand drifted from his side. His fingers brushed the heavy wool of his father’s sleeve first; the fabric was warm from the heat of the pyre. Beneath it, he felt the hard line of muscle, rigid as drawn steel.
He hesitated; the fire roared. A gust of wind drove heat full against them, and ash swirled low across the meadow. Egg slipped his hand lower, between his father’s half-fisted fingers. For a terrible instant, nothing happened; the Prince of Summerhall did not move. Egg’s heart pounded so loudly he feared the men around them might hear it. His hand trembled, small and uncertain within the space between knuckles scarred by steel. He did not withdraw.
Very slowly, Maekar’s fingers loosened - just enough; the change was so slight it might have been imagined. Egg slid his hand into his father’s palm. The difference in size startled him. Maekar’s hand was broad and rough, the skin thickened from years of sword-hilt. A faint scar crossed the heel of his palm. The signet ring pressed cool and solid against Egg’s skin.
For a breath, they only touched. Then Maekar closed his hand, and did so deliberately. His fingers folded around Egg’s as though sealing a vow. The grip was firm, too firm for a child, perhaps - but Egg did not flinch. He tightened his own fingers in answer, curling them against the rough warmth of his father’s palm. He felt the faint tremor in Maekar’s hand now - not visible in the prince’s posture, not betrayed in his face, but present.
Another beam collapsed with a thunderous crack, and the pyre sagged inward. Flame surged high, bright as a crown placed upon nothing but air.
Maekar’s hand tightened, harder. Egg felt it - that pulse of grief, sharp and blinding, transmitted through bone and sinew. And suddenly, without meaning to, he remembered another fire. He had been very small then. The world had seemed enormous - too many black cloaks, too many faces he did not know. He remembered standing at knee-height among them, not understanding why everyone spoke in whispers.
He had asked where she was. Someone had told him she was resting, someone else had said she was with the gods. He had not known what either answer meant. He had waited for her to wake, he had listened for her voice. He remembered thinking she must be cold - she had always been cold. He had wanted to bring her his blanket, the small red one from his bed. He had wondered if she would be angry that he had not said goodbye properly. He had worried, terribly, that perhaps she had gone somewhere because he had misbehaved. That perhaps if he had been quieter, or kinder, she would still be there.
The heat of the pyre had frightened him. It seemed wrong - wrong that something so bright and devouring could belong to someone who had smelled of lavender and cool linen. He remembered the heat on his cheeks, the sting in his eyes, the smell of something terrible.
And he remembered his father’s arms.
He had tugged at Maekar’s sleeve, asking something; he did not remember what. His father had not answered. Not because he would not - because he could not. Instead, he had lifted him. Egg remembered the sudden height of it - the way the world shifted as strong arms came around him. He remembered pressing his face into wool and leather, breathing in the familiar scent of his father beneath the smoke. He remembered the steady thunder of his father’s heart - and the tremor there, too.
He had not understood then why that chest had shaken - now he did.
The memory flickered and was gone, swallowed by the roar of the present fire. Egg tightened his grip and stepped closer without thinking, his shoulder brushing against Maekar’s side. He felt the bandaged ribs beneath the wool. He felt the careful rise and fall of breath drawn through clenched teeth.
He did not need to be lifted this time, he stood on his own. But he leaned, just slightly, into his father’s side. There was no shape of a man within the fire now, only brightness. Only heat, fierce and pure as dragonflame. Maekar did not look down, but he shifted his hand. His thumb moved across Egg’s knuckles, pressing once, firm and steady - a silent acknowledgement. The gesture was so small it might have been mistaken for nothing at all.
The world narrowed to heat and smoke and that unbreakable grip. Around them, lords stood rigid. Valarr faced the blaze without turning back. The meadow smelled of tar and burning oak and something deeper, something final. Maekar’s breath hitched - so faint it was nearly swallowed by the roar. Egg felt it, and tightened his hand again.
They stood thus as the pyre burned lower, as wood gave way and flame devoured what it could. They stood until the morning light grew harsh and clear, until there was nothing left of Baelor Breakspear but fire and ash and memory. And as the Prince of Dragonstone burned before the realm, the Prince of Summerhall stood beside his son in the open light of day, and let the boy’s small hand hold him fast.
He did not let go.